The Best Medicine
by Quadrophenia73
Summary: Most people advise bed rest to their ill best friends. High functioning sociopaths resort to other methods.


**Yeah so this is a silly little story I whipped up. Disclaimer: I do not own Sherlock. Le poo.**

221B Baker Street was a source of utter boredom one morning. Sherlock sat lazily in an armchair, a book dangling loosely from his hand as he stared up at the ceiling.

"John!" he called out. "I'm bored!" He sat there for a long moment awaiting a response. "John, it's after eleven in the morning. How could you possibly still be asleep?" John was usually awake before Sherlock, possibly due to the fact that Sherlock stayed awake until three or four in the morning on a regular basis.

His only response was silence. He knew that John was awake, because he could see a glimpse of the blond man bundled in bed through the slightly open door. Huffing a breath of impatience, Sherlock got to his feet and opened the fridge to check on his experiments.

"I'll put these toes on the stove if you don't get out of bed," he threatened loudly. He strained his ears and heard a snore. He muttered something under his breath and set down the plastic bag of toes he had collected from the morgue.

He marched into John's room and threw the door open loudly, stirring his best friend awake. "John, I've been trying to wake you for two hours. The flat is too dull when I don't have anybody to run ideas off of."

Half-asleep, John fumbled for a pillow and shoved it into Sherlock's face. "Go away, Sherlock. I'm sick," he mumbled hoarsely.

Sherlock stared at John blankly. "That's no excuse to ignore me."

"Mmf," John muttered, turning over underneath his blankets. "Leave me 'lone. I want to sleep."

Sherlock yanked the covers off of John: blanket, sheet, and all. He left the room, dragging John's bedclothes with him. He piled them on the couch in the living room and sat down. To his immense joy, he heard John's feet shuffling down the hall.

"Sherlock, what's the matter with you?" he complained stuffily. "I'm trying to rest and you just stripped my bed."

"You don't need rest. Rest is dull, just like this day."

"It's only..." John glanced at the clock. "Fifteen minutes after eleven. I'm sure a nice bloody body will turn up somewhere before the day ends. Now give me my blankets."

"No," Sherlock said indignantly, still perched on top of the pile of covers. "I got you out of bed and I want it to remain that way."

"You don't need me awake. You can find something else to do." John grabbed the edge of his sheets and tried to pull them out from under Sherlock, who sat firmly in place.

Sherlock scowled and turned onto his side, his back facing John as he tangled himself in the bedclothes. "There's nothing to keep my mind busy."

"Stop acting like a two year old." John gave up and released the bedclothes. He sleepily padded into his bedroom and found an extra set in the closet. He half-made his bed before climbing into it, making sure he had locked the door behind him.

"John?" Sherlock called out, sitting up and peeling the blankets he had confiscated off of himself. He started to bang on John's door, but his phone let out a beep and his eyes lit up when he saw a text from Lestrade. "John! It's fantastic! A _quadruple_ homicide!"

He quickly raced into his bedroom and changed into one of his everyday fitted suits. His day suddenly seemed much brighter. He quickly cleaned up in the bathroom and found John in the kitchen, still in his pyjamas with his hair sloppy.

"John, what are you doing?" he demanded. "You're not even dressed."

"Of course I'm not."

"I'm not taking you to the scene of a quadruple homicide dressed like you haven't left your bed in weeks," Sherlock insisted. "It's not decent."

"Sherlock... that made _no_ sense." John stopped and sneezed four times. "You'll have to go without me."

"But this is a quadruple homicide, John!" Sherlock protested as if he hadn't made the news clear. "That's four bodies. The chances of this happening again any time soon are remote. You can't possibly miss this opportunity."

"I think I'll take that chance," John mumbled, lying down on the couch. "Go have fun."

"Fine," Sherlock groaned. He turned on his heel and stormed out of the flat, slamming the door behind him and stomping down the stairs.

**DJSHFJKDSYHFIODSJFDSKLGJDLKGJKSDKLGSD**

Sherlock didn't return until later in the afternoon. He eagerly bound into the flat, prepared to fill John in with every detail he had discovered at the crime scene.

"John, you missed something great!" he exclaimed enthusiastically. "All four of the bodies were stabbed in the bathtub and posed to look like-" He interrupted himself when he found John still sleeping on the couch. "How are you still sleeping? You're getting an inordinate amount of rest."

"I'm not anymore," John muttered crankily. His voice had become more congested since morning and he was running a fever. He turned to glare at Sherlock.

"You look awful."

"For the world's only consulting detective, you aren't very attentive." John sat up groggily and reached for a tissue. He sneezed into multiple times and groaned miserably.

Sherlock stared at John for a long moment. He felt slightly guilty for abandoning his sick friend in the flat all day long without so much as informing Mrs. Hudson that he was sick. He awkwardly took a step closer to his best friend. "Do you want me to do anything?"

"What are you talking about?"

"Isn't that what people do when their friends are sick? Sit around smothering them with unnecessary care for a simple cold?"

John snorted, but he couldn't deny that he would most likely doing that exact thing if Sherlock had been the one to awaken ill. "I could use some water and some soup."

Sherlock started to argue but stopped himself. He disappeared into the kitchen and John could hear him noisily moving about for at least five minutes.

"Sherlock! How long does it take to pour a glass of water and heat up a can of soup?"

Sherlock returned to the living room, carrying a bowl and a glass of water, which he had spilled until it was half empty. He sat on the armrest of the couch and handed them to John as if they were peace offerings.

John noticed that Sherlock had arranged the noodles in the soup to resemble a crime scene. He sighed. "I see you're showing me what I missed today." _As if twenty seven photographs weren't enough_, he added mentally.

"Why not? It's a good remedy."

"Yes, Sherlock. A crime scene in my soup bowl is the best medicine one could ever take." John couldn't stop an amused smile as he took a bite of the soup. He supposed that a crime scene reenactment made of noodles was as touching as one would ever expect from Sherlock Holmes.

Sherlock pulled out the thermometer and stuck it underneath John's tongue, causing the shorter man to spit almost all of his soup when the object was jammed under his tongue.

"Sherlock," he choked. "I was eating!"

"I had to take your temperature," Sherlock defended.

"While I had a mouth full? You could have choked me!"

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "It's soup, John. Liquid with noodles. Your medical knowledge should have told you that it would be difficult to choke on it." He pulled the thermometer out and read it, ignoring John's scowling. "101. Yet you're still surrounded with blankets."

"People with fevers are cold, Sherlock." John tightened the blankets around himself and closed his eyes. He could still feel Sherlock standing nearby. "I thought you had a quadruple homicide to celebrate," he groaned.

"That's a ridiculous statement. I couldn't celebrate such a monumental event without you, and you're far too ill to attend."

John was unable to resist a chuckle. Most people would be disturbed, but he was honestly touched. "I'll make sure to RSVP the occasion when I'm well again."

The younger man nodded. "You do that." Suddenly he pounced on top of John and sprawled out.

"Sherlock! What in the-"

"You're cold."

"And?"

"I also want to lie down on the couch." Sherlock shifted so that John's body was pressed between his own longer one and the backrest of the couch.

John was torn between trying to push Sherlock off of the couch or curling up against him. He was comfortable despite the narrowness of the couch, but the simple fact that Sherlock of all people was practically snuggling him was one of the biggest surprises he had ever experienced.

He finally opted for his latter option and nestled closer to Sherlock.

He definitely felt a little bit better.

**Fweehee. So, should I leave this as a oneshot or add a second part?**


End file.
